“She’s getting her color back.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Shall I check her blood pressure again?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it from here.”
Hushed voices that aren’t really hushed at all float in and out like a radio station trying to tune into its frequency. I have no idea where I am. What’s the last thing I remember? I try to recall, but it hurts—it always does.
Running a clammy hand down my face, I scrub over my eyes.
“Ms. Van Allen, can you hear me?”
The deep voice is as smooth as summer cherries. Regardless, I groan, eyes still sealed shut. “It’s Lola. Ms. Van Allen is my mother, and I’d rather there was only one of her.”
“Oh, c’mon, she can’t be that bad.”
“She makes Satan look like Mother Theresa.”
I’m not trying to be funny, so when I hear a husky chuckle, I c***k open an eye. The w
